


A Trip, a Punch, and Willing

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen and Ianto track down aliens in the countryside, because Torchwood's work is never done even when Jack isn't around. Some things are resolved, and some things are just beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Trip, a Punch, and Willing

Owen smiles that smile of his, too many teeth, all of them sharp, shark-like, waiting to sink into something soft and vulnerable. “Come now, darling, a little chatting won’t hurt, yeah?“ 

Unbelievably, the salesgirl behind the counter, blood-young and bleached blond, falls for it. She twirls a lock of her hair around her finger, smiling almost as widely as Owen, her smile as gap-toothed as Gwen’s. She’s a bit on the heavy side, but no less pretty for it, smooth, young face topped with a mop of unruly hair, spangles and clips holding it in place. “Well…”

Owen knows that tone of voice, that glance up through the eyelashes: ply me with sweet words, they say, and I’ll open up to you like a flower. He’s laying it on a bit thick, though what can it hurt, here in this backwater dump of a village somewhere at the ass end of Wales? Foreigners are frowned upon even if they speak English, and everything about Torchwood screams ‘out of this world!’, though they certainly _are_ of this world.

…then again, not even Ianto looks local, pressed suit and polished shoes and all, and the poor sod’s from Wales, blood and accent. Owen catches sight of the other man’s reflection in the mirror behind the counter: Ianto’s all but rolling his eyes so far he can see the back of his own head, but he remains silent, a mere shadow at Owen’s shoulder ready to step in supportively, if needed.

Owen doesn’t need him for this. He leans against the counter, one shoulder forward, smiling his best ‘You can trust me, I’m your best friend’ smile, the one that _gets_ him into the places a Torchwood ID, fast talking or a gun won’t. 

The salesgirl coyly blinks at him, and he has her, hook, line and sinker. “Well, this is what I saw…”

It never fails; Owen’s smile shifts into a grin, the one that says ‘Gotcha!’ so loud and clear he’s all but crowing it to the skies. 

Back on the street, rain-wet and grey, Ianto shakes his head at him. “It’s a miracle you’re not getting punched every other day or so.”

“Aw, come on. She liked it!” Owen’s scribbling a note on a wad of paper, sticks the pen between his teeth and gives Ianto a grin. “Poor girl’s probably stuck behind the counter all day, waiting on old grannies and housewives and whatnot. It was just a bit of fun.”

The SUV is parked at the curb, a little ways down from what passes for the main shopping street in this place. It’s sad, really: they have one pub, one shop, one place offering Bed & Breakfast that Owen wouldn’t be caught dead staying at, and little else. He’d go mad in a village like this, no real night life, no _fun_ but watching the sheep mate and indulging in he said, she said. 

A shop, a pub, Bed & Breakfast, and reports of strangely glowing lights dotting the hillside just to the west of the village at night. The local copper’s called it in and Torchwood’s gotten wind of it, through the usual channels. Owen has no idea what those channels are, but here they are, Ianto and he, plodding down this sad little street on a grey afternoon in the middle of practically nowhere. 

“Grannies and housewives? You don’t have the slightest idea about the countryside at all, do you?”

“But you do, and that’s why you turned up in a suit? C’mon, Ianto – you’re sticking out like a sore thumb.” Owen finishes his notes, tucks the paper away. The lights only come at night, and only when there are no stars, no moon. “Besides, what’s so bad about flirting?”

Ianto, watching carefully where he places his feet on the wet sidewalk, gives him A Look. “It’s not the flirting, it’s the way you do it.”

It’s Owen’s turn to roll his eyes, and he makes sure Ianto sees it. “Just because some of us have a stick so far up their arse they sleep standing up, doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t get to have some fun.” He nudges Ianto with his elbow. “And what’s wrong with the way I flirt?”

Ianto gracefully dances away from Owen’s elbow attack, and promptly steps into a puddle. He scowls at Owen’s snicker, face as sour as curdled milk and just about as pleasant. “It’s artless, shameless and embarrassing to watch. Really, you were all but drooling on the counter!”

Owen sighs. He almost wishes he’d brought Gwen, or even Tosh, instead of Ianto, but Tosh’s got a cold and sounds like an 80-year-old chain smoker rattling out their last breath, and Gwen’s doing whatever with that pushy boyfriend of hers. So it’s him and the teaboy, a three-hour-drive away from Cardiff, a rainy, overhung afternoon, and this dump of a village. 

They’ve come to a strange sort of ceasefire, Ianto and he. Owen still carries one hell of a grudge for that gunshot wound in his shoulder and Ianto’s made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t appreciate being called anyone’s part-time shag, but they have to work together, so they make an effort at being civil. Yeah, they sometimes still spit and hiss at each other like cats fighting over territory, Owen’s barbs venomous and cruel, Ianto’s return volleys subtler but no less sharp, but on unspoken agreement, Jack isn’t mentioned and Ianto doesn’t point a gun at Owen again. 

It’s better than it could have been. There are times when Owen even appreciates Ianto’s company; this is turning out _not_ to be one of these times. 

“Drooling. Right.” Owen decides it’s time to change the topic. He stops so abruptly that Ianto all but walks right into him. “Anyway. Weather forecast says it’s going to rain tonight, so we might just get lucky and see those glowy things. What time is it?”

“Just before three.” Ianto, arms folded and looking pinch-faced, throws a longing glance in the direction of the SUV. “The reports say they tend to turn up around midnight, so that gives us a few hours to kill.”

“Well, come on, we might as well do something useful with the time we have.” Owen veers right, across the street. One pub only, but he’ll take that over being stuck in the SUV with Ianto for hours on end. “Be nice to me and I may even buy the first round.”

Ianto must be rolling his eyes again; Owen can feel it like a physical sensation between his shoulder blades. Still, Ianto follows him willingly enough, even as he asks, “You want to get drunk? Now?”

“Who said anything about getting drunk?”

*****

Two hours later, it takes Ianto and the barkeeper two tries to physically separate Owen from one of the local farmers. 

Owen doesn’t remember how the argument started, only how it ends: with him on the ground, seeing stars, the farmer yelling something in Welsh, and Ianto stepping between them. They’d drawn a few curious glances from the locals, walking into the pub, and Owen did buy the first round mostly to have a chance to chat up the barkeeper, who’s now pointing a finger and him and snapping, “You, out!”

Over Ianto’s shoulder, Owen can see the farmer’s red, sweaty face. The man’s still swinging his fists, swearing under his breath and probably saying unkind things about Owen’s ancestors, but Ianto’s the mountain, calm and motionless and, Owen guesses from the tense line of the younger man’s shoulders, giving the farmer one of the Ianto-stares that say ‘I implore you to stand back, sir, or I will be forced to rip out your innards and tie them into knots’. 

Owen’s been on the receiving end of such a stare and knows how effective it can be ( and besides, in his black suit, black shirt and red-striped tie, Ianto looks like a clichéd version of a mafia killer ). He scrambles back to his feet, reaching up to touch his split lip. Fuck, but that had been one good, solid right hook. He’d always guessed that all that sheep-herding had to be good for something other than just wool and lamb chops. His head’s still ringing fiercely, but he manages an insolent grin. “Fine, fine. Tell your boyfriend to calm down, we’re going.”

The barkeeper turns an alarming shade of red and there’s a new explosion of Welsh behind Ianto. Judging by the unfriendly glares the other patrons of the pub are giving him, he’s outlived his welcome by now – pity, that. They have rather fine beer. 

Owen saunters toward the door, ten feet tall and smirking. He’ll walk out of here with his dignity, if nothing else. 

Ianto catches up with him on the sidewalk. “So, that not getting punched every other day thing? I take it back. What the hell was that?”

“Come on, Ianto, did you see their faces?” Owen’s searching for a handkerchief, to staunch the trickle of blood sliding down his chin. “’s not _my_ fault the locals can’t take a bit of good-natured innuendo.”

Ianto’s eyes are wide, round, surprised. “Innuendo? You all but called him a sheep-fucking -“, he stops himself, taking a deep breath. “Look, this isn’t London. This isn’t even Cardiff. Your metrosexual charm isn’t going to work here.”

“What, you think I didn’t know that?” He finally finds a hankie, somewhat clean, and wipes his chin with it. One of the local women, robust and weathered, pointedly crosses the street to avoid being on the same sidewalk with them. Just for that, Owen gives her a wide, blood-stained grin before he asks, “What time is it?”

Ianto’s still looking at him as if he’s grown another head in the last two minutes, and Owen thinks that one of these days, he’s going to have to teach their teaboy the fine art of brawling. And drinking. And, goddamn it, _living_. It might help with the stiffness and all. “Just gone five. Congratulations. Your antics have left us with seven hours and no place to stay, unless you want to sit in the SUV.”

“No thanks, not interested.” Split lip taken care of, Owen admits to himself that, yeah, he might not have thought this one through. Still, he isn’t one to linger over past mistakes, at least not small ones. “Let’s get back to the SUV, report in to Tosh, and then see what else we can do, yeah?”

“Don’t you mean ‘who’?” Ianto’s got the pinch-face going on again, looking at Owen as if he’s some kind of revolting bug under a microscope. 

“There are lows even I won’t stoop to, and this,” Owen flaps a hand at their surroundings, “is _low_.”

Ianto’s already walking away. “Could’ve fooled me.”

*****

They end up going to the Bed & Breakfast place Owen wouldn’t want to be caught dead staying at. Ever resourceful and prepared, Ianto’s packed a small overnight bag; Owen brought only himself, enough for all. The lady of the house, a square-faced, white-haired old bird with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, gives them a thorough once-over when they ring the bell. 

“You’re the boys that mixed up with Sean, down at the pub?” she asks when they’re inside and on the stairs up to the first floor.

Owen _loves_ villages: news travel faster than the wind between some of these peoples’ ears. He leaves the talking to Ianto and inspects their room. It’s a tidy, small place in a tidy, small house. Patterned curtains, flower-printed bedspread, an honest-to-God chamber pot peeking out from under each bed. 

Behind him, Ianto’s making calming noises at the old lady, downplaying Owen’s part in the fistfight that must be the talk of the village already. Owen finds the bathroom equally as small and tidy as the rest and, coming back into the bedroom just in time to watch Ianto shut the door with a sigh, inquires, “Food?”

“There’ll be a cold plate in a bit,” Ianto tells him, shoulders sagging an inch. “Extra fee, of course. Breakfast was a few hours ago.”

“Sod the extra fee. Torchwood pays for this. What do you care?” Watching Ianto relax is like watching a snail cautiously extend its feelers out of the safety of its house. With nothing else to look at, Owen watches him. 

“You’re not the one who has to write up the expense reports,” Ianto retorts, slowly taking off his suit jacket and finding a hanger in the tiny closet. 

He looks a little more human now, Owen decides, despite the pressed shirt and tie still on him; hair curiously flat from the humidity, cheeks ruddy from the stiff breeze, Ianto looks…

Owen walks up behind him, and yeah, that relaxed inch? So gone. He ghosts a fingertip along one of Ianto’s shoulders, just enough pressure to feel the fine material of his shirt whisper over the iron tension beneath. 

“What,” Ianto asks carefully, “are you doing?”

Ianto doesn’t touch people unless he has to. Hell, Ianto wanted to give Jack a _handshake_ (Tosh told Owen, and damn, they really can’t keep any secrets between them, can they? ) after their captain came back _from the dead_ , as if he was welcoming a long-distance relative into his flat. It’s a sad testimony to the fact of just how screwed up Ianto really is, that he can’t deal with the simplest of touches.

…at least, _Owen’s_ touches, but then, when do they ever touch? Owen can’t recall ever hugging Ianto ( grappling with each other over the rift manipulator blueprints doesn’t count ), and frankly, Owen isn’t a hugging man himself. He leaves that to Gwen and her overly emotional responses to _everything_. 

“Lint on your shirt,” he lies easily, and steps away again. “Can’t have you looking less than squeaky clean, can we?” He makes for the bathroom again. “I’m taking a shower.”

He catches Ianto’s reflection in the bathroom mirror, just before he shuts the door. That’s ‘unsettled’, right there. 

Owen’s inner three-year-old gleefully jumps up and down while he inspects his split lip in the mirror, chanting, ‘Gotcha! Gotcha!’, and Owen can’t help grinning, even if it hurts like a bitch. He’s never really thought of this before, not with Jack in the picture, but now he does, and it’s _marvelous_.

*****

The old bird – she introduced herself with a name Owen can’t remember, much less pronounce correctly - serves them a cold plate, just like Ianto said. It’s good, solid food: large slabs of cheese and ham, pickles, sausages, bread. They have strong, black tea in large mugs; Ianto drinks his with a teaspoon of milk and sugar. The kitchen isn’t as tidy as the rest of the house, but it’s comfortable, lived-in, knick-knacks everywhere and an old radio playing – of course – Welsh folk songs, or at least that’s what it sounds like to Owen. 

With a bit of needling, their temporary landlady opens up about the glowy things over on the hillside. 

“Those lights? We’ve been seeing them now and then for the last two months or so. First we thought old Bill’s looked too deeply into the pint glass, if you get my meaning, but then Gladys’ son Phil saw’em, too, and before you know it, the whole village is talking about nothing else.” She gives them another sharp glance over the rim of her reading glasses. “Did the government send you?”

Owen nudges Ianto’s knee with his own.

“We’re experts on weather phenomena,” Ianto says smoothly. He doesn’t react to the nudging, not even when Owen keeps their knees pressed together. “It’s probably just static.”

“Static.” She lifts an eyebrow, and hell, even to Owen’s ears it sounds like bullshit.

“Yes, see, with the changing climate over the past few years, we…” Ianto launches into a long, detailed explanation about electromagnetic fields in the air, their effect on the country and the people, and Owen tunes him out. 

Instead, he slowly lifts his foot off the floor, just a few inches. Their trouser-clad knees rub and Owen sets his foot back down, nudging again. Ianto’s glance across the table is quick, nothing more than a brief meeting of eyes, a telegraphed, ‘What? _What_?’ and Owen grins at him, relaxed in his comfortable chair, tongue-tip resting against his teeth. 

Ianto shifts in his seat, moving his leg out of nudging reach. 

Owen _pouts_. 

The old lady isn’t as dim-witted as maybe Ianto had hoped: she keeps asking questions, and Ianto keeps answering them, one after the other. It goes on for nearly twenty minutes before the phone ringing in another room spirits her away; she goes, telling them that there’s more tea to be had, and to leave the dishes on the table. 

As soon as the door closes, Ianto leans forward over the table. “What are you doing?”

Owen affects an innocent blink. “Hmm?”

“You nudged me. My knee.”

“That happens when two or more people are sitting at the same table together.”

Ianto’s giving him a long, hard look. “And then you – _rubbed_ your leg against mine.” 

“I was stretching,” Owen explains lazily, enjoying this far too much. He stretches now, to demonstrate, and yes, there is Ianto’s leg, and his is rubbing right against it. He shrugs when Ianto shifts once more out of reach, but honestly: if he shifts any further, he’ll be at the other end of the kitchen. The idea makes Owen grin even wider. “Think she bought it?”

Ianto’s still looking at him, narrow-eyed and suspicious. “Maybe.” He eats another bite of bread and ham, washing it down with tea. “As long as we don’t end up being followed by a bunch of curious villagers tonight, we should be fine.”

In Ianto’s stead, Owen’d be more worried about a bunch of angry villagers bearing pitchforks, a residual effect of their – all right, his - little stint at the pub, but he nods. For now, he’s done with teasing; he’s sated and warm, and they still have five hours before they need to brave the elements and whatever’s making the hills sport glowy lights. Stretching again, this time not aiming anywhere remotely near Ianto’s knee, he rises. “I’m going to kip for a bit.” 

“What, all that fighting tire you out?” Ianto smirks at him.

Owen smirks back. “You’re so cute when you try to be funny. You should try being funny more often. It suits you.” And, yeah, _yesss_ , the smirk slides right off Ianto’s face to be replaced by total and utter blankness. “What?”

“What are you – no. Nevermind.” Ianto shakes his head. “I don’t want to know. Go take your nap, I’m going to call in to Tosh and report.”

As he makes his way up the stairs, Owen thinks he might just have found his new, favorite pastime. Flirting with Ianto, and yeah, it’s fun even if Ianto’s clearly uncomfortable, but that never bothered Owen before and it doesn’t bother him now. 

*****

He pours himself into one of the beds and stretches out. 

The thing is, nothing much really _bothers_ Owen when it comes to invading someone else’s comfort zones and scaling past their boundaries. His own are iron-clad and fortified, and heaven help the poor fool who manages to climb right past them. Out of all the people Owen’s met over the years, Diane’s the only one to ever get so deep beneath his skin that he gave a fuck, in the end. Her flying away, without a glance back, without thinking twice about it? That hurt, it really did, it still _does_ , but he’s getting over it, one small step at a time. 

Living in the past is the rigor mortis of the future. He got that one out of a fortune cookie, but it’s true. 

Diane. Diane, and Jack Harkness. ( And Katie, but honestly, Owen hasn’t thought of her in months. )

…though Jack’s been gone, what, four months now? And, truly, Owen still doesn’t know what exactly it is about Jack. It’s not the coming back alive, not only once but _twice_ , right under Owen’s nose. Owen doesn’t know what it is, 

( it’s the forgiving, the embrace, the shadows under Jack’s eyes when he pulled Owen in and told him, without saying a word: it’s okay, it’s fine, it’s done, I don’t hate you. 

Had their roles been reversed, Owen would have hated himself. He can’t understand why Jack didn’t, doesn’t, because no one’s heart should be that big. )

but something about Jack lets Jack get under peoples’ skins like a hot knife into butter, pull the rug out from under their feet.

So, yeah.

He wonders how long it’s going to take before Ianto _cracks_. It’s not that Owen’s particularly keen on seeing Ianto crack, at least not unless it’s in a pattern Owen can predict, and it’s not as if he’s particularly interested in Ianto in the first place.

( It’s what he keeps telling himself, and if he keeps on telling himself, he might just start actually believing it. ) 

Sometimes, all that matters is that someone’s _there_ , available.

*****

He falls asleep; he must have: when Owen cracks an eye open, it’s to the sight of Ianto gliding out of the bathroom, accompanied by a cloud of steam. Owen doesn’t move, and for some reason Ianto hasn’t turned on any of the lights, which leaves them with nothing but the street lamps outside casting erratic shadows into the room. 

Ianto tries to be silent, but the house is old on top of being small and tidy, and inevitably, a floorboard creaks under a bare foot. The sight of Ianto freezing in place is amusing, but really, it’s also a little sad, because Owen isn’t made out of cotton candy. If there’s one thing he hates, then it’s someone pussyfooting around him, in whatever shape and form, and Ianto should know that.

Owen sits up and switches on the bedside lamp. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Ianto’s wearing his suit trousers, but his socks, shirt, waistcoat and tie lie on the foot of his bed. 

“Yeah, well, it happened. I’ll send you the therapy bills.” Owen rubs a hand through his hair, yawns. “’times it?”

“Half past ten.” Ianto, reaching for his socks, stops. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

Owen glances down at the watch fastened securely around his own wrist, shrugs. “I like hearing you say it.”

“What, the time?” Ianto frowns. “Is that some weird fetish you have? Other people telling you what time it is? You don’t ask Gwen or Tosh what time it is.”

“That’s only because they’d tell me to look it up myself.” 

Ianto rolls his eyes at him, sits down, and puts on his socks. “It started raining half an hour ago. Wonder why I bothered to take a shower.”

Owen glances at the window, and yeah, there are fat raindrops splashing against the glass. He shifts his legs off the bed, stretches until his spine pops, and considers making a bad joke about Torchwood and rain, but then he notes the muscles of Ianto’s back, all bunched up and screaming tension. “Hey.”

Ianto looks at him over his shoulder. “What?”

Owen flaps a hand. “You okay?”

Ianto’s gaze slides away from him, to the window and the streetlights beyond, and it hits Owen: the darkness, the unsteady shadows, the dirty lights of Brynblaidd, the cannibals. Tosh and Ianto, trussed up like Christmas geese, lambs to the slaughter. Ianto, beaten up and panicking, a meat cleaver against his throat. Stench and dirt and yellowed, uneven teeth, like something out of a cheap horror movie but oh so real. 

“Fuck,” Owen says, suddenly feeling claustrophobic, squeamish. They never really mentioned Brynblaidd again, none of them, as if not talking about it would make the nightmare go away that much faster. 

“Yeah.” Ianto looks away again, elbows on his knees, posture rigid when it should be slumped. “I’m fine, though.”

He isn’t, but Owen knows Ianto’s dealing with it, otherwise he would’ve begged for RetCon a long time ago, or eaten his own gun ( Owen’s still amazed Ianto didn’t do either after Lisa ), like Suzie had, and fuck, thinking about would’ve, could’ve, should’ve isn’t how Owen wants to go into the night. 

He gets up, considering his options. Ianto isn’t wearing his gun now, though Owen can see it, the holster peeking out from under the waistcoat on the bed. He picks up his pillow and smacks it into the back of Ianto’s head, and when Ianto turns around, eyes wide as saucers and a small feather see-sawing down to settle placidly into his wet hair, shouts, “Pillow fight!” and dives right for him. 

*****

They end up being thrown out of the _second_ place in one night, which isn’t quite a new record for Owen, and he laughs and laughs all the way back to the SUV. He knows what hysteria sounds like, can hear it in the cadence of his laughter; it’s what calms him down, the knowledge that he might possibly be losing it.

Ianto, scowling, just shakes his head and says, “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

There are feathers in Ianto’s hair, on Ianto’s suit. It sets Owen right off again. 

*****

By the time they reach the top of the footpath leading to the tallest hill of the region – with a name Owen can’t pronounce, either, which amuses Ianto to no end – it’s so dark they can barely see where they’re stepping. Of course they have a torch, and they drove the SUV as far as they dared, considering the terrain, but Owen feels ill at ease. It’s quiet, too quiet, the only sounds their breaths and the patter of their footsteps, the swish-swish of the wet grass against their shoes and trousers. 

For all his antisocial tendencies, Owen wants, needs human contact, especially when he feels out of his depth, and he suddenly does, here. It gives him something to ground himself with, concentrate on.

Besides, it’s Ianto, and even with glowy lights hopefully about to appear and probably going to eat their spleens, Owen can’t resist.

Ianto stumbles a little when Owen’s hand brushes over the small of his back, then slides under the hem of his suit jacket, fingers curling around the back of his belt. He takes a deep breath, about to comment on this very not-Owen-like behavior, but Owen cuts him short with, “So we don’t lose each other,” and that’s that, they’re trampling on until the footpath fans out into a roughly circular space at the very top of the hill. 

“You can let go of me now,” Ianto says quietly, shining his torch about. 

“Why, afraid I’ll yank you around a little?” To demonstrate, Owen yanks. Predictably, Ianto doesn’t budge. “See?” 

“You are such a child sometimes.”

“And you’re so tense you’re vibrating.” Owen looks around, but there isn’t anything of interest to see. It’s just a hilltop, with one gnarled, lonely tree to keep it company. To the east, three miles or so away, glow the random lights of the village, too far away now to be of any comfort. “Turn off the torch. Don’t want to scare off the fairy lights, do we?”

Ianto clicks off the torch, and of course, now that Owen mentioned it, he’s thinking about the Mara, ugly and green and stealing children. There are no children reported missing from the village, though, so at least ( he hopes ) they aren’t up against something they can’t possibly deal with. Hell, Jack couldn’t deal with the Mara, and the knowledge that they’d had to give them the girl still leaves a stale taste in Owen’s mouth.

“What time is it?”

Ianto sighs. The torch clicks on, briefly. “Twenty minutes to midnight.” 

Great. That’s twenty minutes Owen doesn’t want to spend standing around in the dark, hand tucked almost into the back of Ianto’s trousers. Well, he doesn’t mind the tucking part that much. It keeps his fingers warm, at least. “So, before Torchwood, ever shagged a bloke?”

If ‘still as a rock’ counts as a language, Ianto’s writing a bestseller. It takes a full minute or more before he even reacts to the question, and Owen’s a bit surprised that it’s not with a fist to his face or a scathing remark about how this is none of Owen’s business. Instead, what comes out is a hesitating, “…yeah.”

“Really?” Owen’s really surprised now. “Who? When?”

Ianto turns, dragging Owen’s arm with him by default, and because Owen doesn’t move they end up in a strange sort of semi-hug, Owen’s arm around Ianto’s waist, more than just their knees touching. “You really have no shame, do you?”

“None whatsoever. C’mon, Jones. Details. Can’t leave a guy hanging like this.” He briefly contemplates the wisdom of breaching the forbidden subject, Jack, and then thinks ‘what the hell, why not?’ and comes right out with it. “I always kind of figured Jack – or Torchwood – turned everyone a little bit queer, but I hadn’t pegged you for -”

“Why?” Ianto snaps, sounding affronted, breaching Forbidden Subject Nr. 2 all by himself with, “Just because I was so fixated on Lisa doesn’t mean I didn’t – I didn’t have -”

Hell, why not hang for the whole crime? This conversation is rapidly sliding downhill; Owen’s more than willing to help it along. “ _Experience_? That the word you’re looking for?” Owen tightens his hold on Ianto’s belt and pulls their hips together, grinning. “So when you put that bullet in my shoulder, that was really Ianto-speak for...”

He trails off suggestively. Ianto’s silent again, tense against him, and Owen waits for it, because he knows it’s coming.

“That was Ianto-speak for ‘leave the Rift manipulator alone or I’ll hurt you’,” Ianto says, deadly calm. He reaches back, grabs Owen by the wrist, and firmly pulls Owen’s hand off of his belt. “Just as _this_ is Ianto-speak for ‘take your hand off me before I take your arm off below the elbow’.”

“You’re no fun,” Owen accuses, letting himself be pushed away two or three steps. He’s getting into it now, though, getting riled up, licking blood and finding something he can bury his teeth into. “And I never thought you were fixated on Lisa. You were fixated on London, and Lisa by proxy.” 

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, you don’t have the degree to pull it off.”

“What’s there to psychoanalyze? One minute you’re kneeling over her corpse, all but bawling your eyes out, and next thing we know Jack’s eating your face, and no one, _no one_ can make me believe that _that_ didn’t start way before he ended up running off to fuck knows where.” Owen’s pretty sure that Ianto’s going to punch him, now, but from what he can see of the younger man’s form in the darkness, Ianto’s just standing there, tense and silent, so Owen delivers another shot. He wants this conversation to end, _now_ , so they can get back to the semi-banter they had going all day. “So what is it between you and Jack? Comfort fuck? Guilt? On whose part?”

Ianto punches him in the face, fast and brutal. The last thing Owen thinks before he goes down like a ton of bricks in freefall is, ‘Ouch’.

*****

He comes to and there are bright lights dancing all around him. So bright, in fact, that Owen can clearly see Ianto, who’s looming over him larger than life, expression a curious mix of guilt, concern and lingering anger. 

The bright light sitting on Ianto’s shoulder greets Owen with, “Hello, hello!”

“’m gonna sue you f’r druggin’ me,” Owen slurs, because the bright light didn’t just say ‘hello!’ to him in an annoyingly chipper voice that reminds him far too much of the Teletubbies. 

“Hello!” the light says, again, and it falls away from Ianto’s shoulder, toward Owen’s face, and suddenly there are four legs, and six arms, and big, multi-faceted eyes staring at him from up close, and the thing has wings in changing colours, from blue to pink to yellow, and wow, whatever Ianto’s dragged out of Owen’s tiny medical kit, Owen doesn’t remember putting it in there. 

( Owen currently doesn’t remember if they brought it with them, either. )

He bats a hand at the light, but it clings to his fingertip, making a noise that sounds suspiciously like ‘Wheeeee!’.

Owen holds still. He’s prone, limbs sprawled, and there’s a light clinging to his fingertip, enjoying the ride. “Ianto? What the fuck is going on?” 

“I think it likes you,” Ianto tells him, and now there is another light on Ianto’s shoulder, and another is sitting on top of Ianto’s head, and a third is investigating Ianto’s left ear. In fact, Ianto has an entire halo of lights, dancing and swaying and _every single one of them_ joins in on the ‘Wheeeee!’ and the ‘Hello, hello!’, and really, that’s enough, that’s more than Owen’s willing to take. 

He sits up and shakes his hand, sending the light cart-wheeling through the air. They’re still on the hilltop, and the lights are there, all twelve or so of them. Ianto’s sitting cross-legged in the grass next to Owen, hands folded in his lap. 

“I think they’re friendly,” Ianto says, “but the only word they appear to have picked up on earth is ‘hello’,” and then there’s another chorus of ‘hello, hello!’ all around them, making Owen wish they’d shut the fuck up and let him come to terms with the situation. 

What he comes up with, eventually, is, “Well, at least we’re not dead.”

Ianto gravely nods. “It would seem so.”

“And they’re friendly.”

“Yes.”

“And you punched me in the face, you tosser!” That last bit comes out forcefully, petulant; Owen certainly deserved to be punched in the face, but that doesn’t mean he has to be graceful about it. He’s pretty sure his lip split open again. At least none of his teeth have come loose. 

“Well, you deserved it,” Ianto says, calmly, though he’s clearly uncomfortable. He fidgets a little, but Owen can’t be sure if it’s because of the punching, or because of the light that’s trying to crawl into his ear. “I’m sorry.”

Owen reaches out and plucks the light away from Ianto’s ear, ignoring the sad, plaintive ‘Awwww!’ noise it makes. Upon closer inspection, it looks like a weird, alien version of a butterfly, and that’s probably what it is, except that it has no feelers and an all too human-looking head with an actual face. He lets the light go, watching it dance up and join the others. 

“I believe they were actually waiting for us, or at least waiting for someone willing to let them close,” Ianto says, grimacing when two of the lights descend upon his tie ( and that fucking ‘hello, hello!’ is so not doing anything for Owen’s growing headache ). “I think they need help.”

“What, so you talk to fairies now? You’ve been sniffing too much cleaning solution, teaboy,” Owen scoffs, checking his jaw, finding it swollen, tender. He licks his lips, tastes blood, doesn’t wait for an answer. “Fuck. What do we do with them?”

“Take them back to the Hub, or at least closer to Cardiff, and help them get back home? They’re an awfully long way away from the Rift.”

“Yeah,” Owen says, thoughtfully. He’s watching Ianto, and really, the sight is kind of cute, except that deep down Owen’s still waiting for the lights to mutate into something big and ugly. These things always do. 

Except, they don’t. They just keep on investigating various parts of Ianto, cautiously, curious, until every part of the Welshman has been lit up at least once. Owen leans back on his hands, watching, smiling more and more widely the more Ianto notices him watching, and finally gives him a once over that practically undresses the younger man. 

Ianto swallows dryly, looks away. His gazes slides right back, though, when Owen leans a little further back on his hands, practically opening himself up, thigh against Ianto’s knee. One of the lights appears to find this very interesting, because it darts straight for Owen’s –

“Kinky little bugs,” Owen remarks, watching the light flit around his belt buckle. 

Then Ianto says, “I could make a really corny remark now, about fairy lights and magic moments,” and they both laugh, and the lights join in with ‘hello, hello!’

*****

“Y’know, there’s something to be said for a man in a suit. All those clean, serious lines. Actually, what Jack said: you do look good in a suit.”

Ianto nearly drops the tray, turning around so quickly. Owen’s sprawled in his chair, clicking a pencil against his teeth, grinning. ‘Gotcha’.

They’ve been at it for a week. Or, more like it, Owen’s been at it for a week: working innuendo into every single conversation he has with Ianto, and then some. Dropping comments when he can, and sometimes when he’s not supposed to, for example when Gwen and Tosh are in the vicinity. At first, Ianto bears it with humor and grace, then just with grace. 

Finally, he just bears it. 

“And I’m now supposed to say, ‘careful, that’s harassment’?”

Owen smirks. “You missed the ‘sir’ in there. I’m pretty sure I heard you say ‘sir’ to Jack.”

Ianto’s brows lift, then lower. “I’m not going to call you sir, Owen. There are some lows _I_ won’t stoop to.“ He hands Tosh her cup of coffee and walks away, stiff back and all, and Owen jots down an imaginary tally mark in an equally imaginary notebook. 

Then he notices Tosh staring at him, eyes wide and dark behind her glasses. “What?”

“Are you… _flirting_ with Ianto?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

Something in her eyes shifts, changes. Her lips thin, just for a moment, barely noticeable. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because… well, Jack and Ianto…”

“Tosh, Tosh, Tosh,” Owen says, hitting just the right side of ‘patronizing’ to make her eyes narrow in annoyance, “Jack isn’t _here_ anymore, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“You’re a bastard, Owen,” Tosh tells him, heartfelt, but he can tell she’s curious, and doesn’t have to wait long for, “What do you get out of it?”

“Well, I get to see the teaboy squirm. Have you ever seen him get really flustered? He lights up like a damn Christmas tree.” 

“And… that’s all.”

Owen shrugs: what else _is_ there? “Yeah.”

“That’s really all?”

“Tosh, what are you getting at?” Owen’s rapidly losing interest in the conversation, even more rapidly becoming irritated by the way Tosh looks at him, reproachful and judging. “Do I flirt with Ianto? Yes. Do I want to fuck Ianto? Maybe. Haven’t made up my mind yet. Do I want to fuck him _up_? No. Definitely not. Last thing we need is the team imploding, and we’ve all seen how Ianto implodes. Besides, he’s a grown man, and he already punched me in the face once when I went too far. He doesn’t need mothering, least of all from any of us, kings and queens of fucked up relationships.”

In all honesty, that punch a week ago hadn’t been the result of too much flirting, but that’s something Owen doesn’t want to get into now. They returned to Cardiff with twelve dancing alien butterflies, one hell of a headache and a curious sense of camaraderie that lasted exactly two days, before they ended up squabbling over some insignificant thing. As far as Owen’s concerned, they’re back to the comfortable status quo. 

Tosh looks as though she has a jaw ache, mouth askew. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

*****

And, really, he does know what he’s doing, but then again, he doesn’t, but Owen ever feels alive the most with one foot in the grave. It’s why he’s so interested in the Weevils, beyond the medical and research reasons, of course. It’s why he flirts with men and women who are clearly with someone, it’s why he, god help his black little soul, used that alien pheromone spray on himself, all those months back. 

( Not that he’d ever tell anyone about that, though he suspects Jack knows. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, even though the boyfriend coming in and threatening Owen had been a kink in the plan – one easily ironed out, though. It was just that on the morning after, coming awake to a man and a woman both passed out on either side of him, Owen’d felt like complete, utter filth, something not worth crossing the street for to piss on. )

Owen flirts shamelessly, regardless of the circumstances, who’s watching, who’s there or not there, he knows that, too, and Ianto’s just one more poor bloke who happens to be crossing Owen’s paths all the time, by virtue of them working together. There are so many possibilities that bring them into the same room that Owen, like a kid in a candy store, at first doesn’t know when and where to ( continue ) start: at the coffee machine, 

( “Ianto, some coffee, please? Thanks. And, oh yeah, one of those little sandwich things… yeah. Thanks, mate. Anyone ever tell you that you have really great hands?” )

in reception,

( “So, do you _really_ know all the good places to hang out at in Cardiff? Mind giving me the personal tour?” )

while Ianto’s cleaning Jack’s abandoned office again,

( “What I’m doing here? Nothing, nothing… oh, look, I think you missed a spot. Right there. Under the desk.” )

in the SUV

( “I’m freezing, you’re freezing, we’re both here, so hold still. There. Christ, you’re warm. _Mmmm_. Nice.” ).

…and somehow, some time later, Owen realizes that he doesn’t know when to stop, either.

*****

One particularly vicious night later, they all end up piling into the SUV and going to a club. Not a pub tonight, no: Owen’s very vocal about wanting something other than quiet introspection over a pint or ten, and the others silently agree with him, or at least they are too knackered to object. 

Ianto does know more about Cardiff than they do, directing Gwen to a place in the opposite direction of where the team usually ends up. They get in with a minimum of fuss, get their wrists stamped with a red, evil-looking devil’s face, and dive right into the cacophony of shouting voices, driving beats and the press of too many sweaty, inadequately dressed bodies following the relentless music.

Owen thinks it’s great; yeah, he did go almost straight from school to uni to the hospitals, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have time to party. 

They look like hell: in the stroboscope flashes, Gwen’s and Tosh’s hair is disheveled, untidy, their eyes too large in their faces. Owen buys them drinks, something adequately girly with little paper umbrellas in it, but no less potent. Gwen downs hers almost in one go and then goes for another, face a little less pale. Tosh, looking like a little girl lost, cautiously tastes hers; Owen feels a bit better at the sight of Tosh’s lips slowly stretching into a smile.

That leaves only one to take care of.

Ianto’s tie is askew, and Owen pulls it even more askew as he grabs him by it and drags him out onto the dance floor. If Ianto protests, Owen doesn’t hear it: the music’s too loud, the people are shouting, and before he knows it, they’re surrounded by warm, sweaty bodies on all sides and the rhythm is throwing them together. 

Ianto shouts something at him, but it’s lost in the music. He looks hopelessly out of place, even with his suit a little less neat than usual; Owen thinks he looks _gorgeous, alive_. In this crowd, nobody gives a toss about who dances with whom. It’s all one great, big mass of bodies sliding against one another, some more gracefully than others.

Owen puts his hands on Ianto’s hips and drags him closer. He’s perfectly capable of flirting with his body, so he does it now, slotting himself easily against Ianto’s slightly taller form. The surrounding crowd throws them together, hips knocking unpleasantly, but Owen doesn’t let that deter him, far from it: tonight, more than ever, he needs the contact. As much contact as he can get.

( There is a small spacecraft, crash-landed in the woods just outside of Cardiff, and by the time they get there, the fine-boned, soft-voiced aliens are dying, dying, one after the other, unable to breathe Earth’s air, unable to bear Earth’s touch upon their fish-scaled skin. They are able to bear human touch, though, so they cling to Owen, Gwen, Tosh and Ianto until they die, taking what comfort they can, crying softly to each other about how unfair the universe really is. Earth looks so pretty from space, but from up close, it’s so, so deadly. )

Ianto looks as exhausted as Owen feels, and a little bit confused, too. Owen’s hands are still on his hips, alternating between there and the small of his back, pulling them together, pushing them apart. Owen sinks them into the driving beat, teasing, hinting, offering, and Ianto’s eyes are asking, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ and Owen’s answer, ‘Hell if I know.’

Ianto’s a good dancer, though a bit stiff-backed at first. It might also be the close proximity between them, Owen doesn’t know. It doesn’t take long for them to find a pace that suits them both, and Owen finally gets to close his eyes and forget, just for a little while, that he held crying, baby-sized aliens in his arms tonight while they died. 

Later, they can’t find Gwen or Tosh. Marginally sure that they’re both all right, Owen drags Ianto into a somewhat quieter corner, pushes a bottled beer at him, and leans against the wall, watching Ianto sip slowly. 

“You do know it’s inevitable?” Owen asks, and he feels like smirking, so he does. “Us?”

“There is no ‘us’, Owen.”

“But there could be. Tonight.” Tilting his head at the Welshman, Owen makes an aborted kind of motion: hips swaying forward, then back, just once, and really, it kind of looks as if he’s mimicking, well, _intercourse_ , but Ianto doesn’t comment on it. “Don’t tell me you never thought about it.” 

“With you? I’m not that desperate, Owen.”

“You don’t have to be desperate, just willing.”

Ianto snorts.

Owen smiles at him, come hither and challenge all at once. “Are you?”

“What?”

“Willing.”

Ianto’s gaze slides over to him, over him. He doesn’t answer, just keeps watching him, deliberate and focused, maybe the first real eye contact they’ve had in weeks. Owen watches him right back, suggestive and aggressive. Tonight’s as good as any night; Owen’s not in the mood for anything more complicated than that, but he still _has_ to check, to make sure. 

Eventually, Ianto nods. “Just as long as we’re both clear that the moment Jack gets back...”

Owen watches Ianto’s lips against the tip of the bottle, his throat working the beer down. He leans closer, reaches up to trace a finger down the side of Ianto’s neck. The skin’s sweaty, warm, and Ianto shivers a little and that makes Owen pull away. He sticks his finger in his mouth, sucking off the taste of Ianto, salty and a little bit of ozone, residue from their encounter with the baby fish aliens.

It’s a taste he wants more of, will have more of. Tonight. Ianto’s watching him, beer forgotten, warm and still with the damn focus, and Owen’s thinking, ‘Gotcha’ again, but it’s not his inner three-year-old crowing it to the skies this time. 

END


End file.
